Page 38 of Given to the Black King

His breathing is rough against my cheek.

“I moved,” I say.

“Yes.”

“You did not hurt me.”

“I could have.”

“But you didn’t.” I slide my hand behind his neck. “Again. I’ll follow your angle.”

He goes utterly still.

Then he kisses me again.

This time I understand the care hidden inside the force. He turns farther than a human man would, keeping the fang points outside my mouth. When he changes sides, he slows only enough for me to follow.

I moan into his mouth.

The sound breaks what remains of his patience.

He turns and puts me on the map table. Papers slide to the floor. My skirts drag over the inkstone and send it rolling.

“Torgan—”

“Stop?”

“No.”

His growl shakes through me.

He kisses down my jaw. His nose moves over my skin first, breathing me in. Then his mouth follows. He stays clear of the pulse in my throat, and I feel the effort in every tight movement of his body.

“Here.” I touch the thick muscle at the top of my shoulder, well away from my neck. “Safe.”

He looks at the place.

“Mark me.”

“With my mouth?”

“Yes. Use your back teeth. Keep the fangs outside.”

His lip lifts. The two long points gleam against his lower lip. Nothing about them becomes safe because I asked.

“Ask again.”

“Bite my shoulder.”

He pulls the neck of my dress aside. One hand cups the back of my shoulder and turns me exactly where he wants me. Then he sets his mouth to the muscle.

The fangs bracket the place without touching.

His back teeth close.

Hard.

Pain flashes through me. My hips jerk toward him. His hand catches my thigh and holds it open.